


Home For Christmas

by flowersaretarts



Series: Violets [9]
Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 21:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5602425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersaretarts/pseuds/flowersaretarts





	Home For Christmas

There were minced pies and cranberry sauce, roast potatoes, godawful Brussels sprouts and carrots. The turkey was not in favour in Marwood's family, so the central piece of the composition was the monumental goose.  
"So, you are still in that tiny theatre, Peter?"  
"Are you planning anything next year, Peter?"  
"Peter, why don't you want to find a nice girl?"

He almost forgot how much he hated the sound of his own name. Mother and father just loved to insert it into every sentence.  
He was bombarded by the consonants and flicked with vowels.  
He could feel the corners of his mouth going up to freeze in a smile he was intend to wear at least until 6 o'clock.

It was as if he never left. Did they miss him much?  
His sister probably did, she was the only tolerable person in that house.  
But his arrival was so normal, like he just went out for milk and came back.  
It wasn't even a surprise for him, when after the twenty minutes he walked through that door on Christmas Eve, mother casually handed him a toilet brush and said:  
"Help us, will you? I have to do the mash."  
Thanks goodness, no one buggered him much about bringing presents: a bottle of good red wine did the trick.

Smile and nod. Pass the sprouts. More pudding? I have spent hours making it.  
Don't argue with me, boy. Damn fascists. Bloody communists. Shut up, boy, what do you know? You don't even have a telly. Why not? Let me tell you, why. Because you are good for nothing little shit. Of course you've become an actor, what else could you do, apart from putting on poncy tights and prance around squeaking?  
Bob, sit down.  
No, you listen to me...

And then they sit down on the couch, ten minutes and there he is, snoring his head off, his head covered with a newspaper.

"Peter, will you do the dishes? No, I need Ella here, Peter. Why, so soon, Peter? When is your train, Peter?"

Train. She didn't even bother to notice the car outside.  
Sister will kiss his cheek, you forgot your new gloves, silly. See you.

Off he walks. Snowing? He won't even hope for that. Drizzling piss, that is the best end of this dull shite of a day.

***

There were minced pies and cranberry sauce, roast potatoes, godawful Brussels sprouts and carrots, and a fucking turkey a size of a small cupboard.  
Withnail was engaged into an extreme kind of festive sport: a noble mission of getting outrageously stuffed.  
Withnail was shining and sparkling.  
Withnail was the embodiment of jolly and a "favourite uncle".  
Presents? He was the best present of all.  
You won't have a second to even open your mouth, because uncle Vyvian is the loudest and merriest of them all.

A snowball fight? Stealing the custard? Setting the table?

At your service, my dears. Uncle Vyv is here to entertain and fill every empty space in the room.

Oh, yes, of course, uncle Vyv has a terrible hangover, but this is a hush hush, little ones. You don't want to know how your daddy was hissing at your uncle to "keep your big mouth shut for at least one night, for Christ's sake."  
But uncle Vyv only had a half bottle of cream sherry yesterday, and was very quiet not to disturb you all upstairs.

Everything went smoothly, so he predicted. It wasn't a herculean task, really. Rather tedious.

This nice house and bickering with his missus on Sunday mornings, their bloody kids with violins, dogs, taxes, obligations, regulations, and the partridge in a pear tree.

And I know you know I know it, brother dear.  
You sincerely performed your duties, because you had to be a good man, just like Daddy wanted you to be. Wanted me to be, too.

At 7 o'clock sharp, Withnail gave his last smile and wave.  
Adjusted his new woolen scarf.  
Before getting into the cab, he spat in the snow with a great force, knowing no one is bothered to watch.  
They were glad to have a moment of peace now.

As much as he felt exhausted from the pretense, he started feeling relieved.  
He wouldn't tell that to Marwood, of course. The story he was going hear was much bleaker and full of bile remark and partially clothed misery.  
Who likes fucking family dinners, after all.  
Why would we even talk about that. He wouldn't want it, would he.  
Even if he started, he would know when to shut up on time.  
He can read my face better than my brother could ever sense my pain.  
That's why I am on my way, now truly coming home for Christmas.

***

Something told Withnail this evening wouldn't live up to his expectations. The light in the apartment wasn't on. His train was on time, so was the cab, and yet he couldn't be here earlier than half past eleven.  
With a chill in his stomach, he decided to stop at the front door.  
No, no, he was certainly not going in there alone.  
He could go upstairs, check the empty bathroom, then Marwood's room and the sitting room.  
The unwanted absence and the night gloom would drive him insane.

Why was he late? For fuck's sake, Kent isn't more than two hours away.  
Could that be that he stayed at his old folks' for another day?  
The snowfall isn't that big, nonsense, it shouldn't be like this.

The steam from his mouth and the cigarette smoke; he hid himself behind this illusionary wall, waiting for the front lights of the Jag emerge from round the corner.

Nothing came but a solitary passer-by.  
A stray dog. A random couple.

Then the voice, almost whispering in the cold air:

\- What are you doing here?

\- What took you so long? - replied Withnail with irritation. - Where's the car?

\- Dumped it. It's as good as dead.

He noticed that Peter was looking at his scarf with some kind of strange sadness.

\- What's in it? - he asked, nodding at the wrapped object in Marwood's hands.

\- Nothing. Why didn't you get in, Withnail?

\- Didn't take the key. I thought, you should have come first, anyway. What's in the package?

Peter shook his head, trying not to swear at his careless flatmate.  
He ripped the wrapping paper to show him another scarf. Quite modest, not as expensive and finely made, it's colour and texture practically mumbled of its shyness.

\- I want it.

\- It's nothing, Withnail. I... I...

\- Give it to me.

Vyvian ripped off the gorgeous tartan off his neck and dropped it on the ground, to replace it with Marwood's present.

\- Oh, stop this, Withnail. Let's get in.

He reached for his pocket, froze on the spot, then checked the other, then the inner one, and then kicked the door in a sudden rage.

"Fuck! It's gone! Why, why the fuck is it gone Now!"

Withnail, who was always intimidated by Peter's anger, tiptoed to him in a clumsy attempt of calming him down.

\- We could climb up the drain pipe and get in through the window. - he said, offering Marwood a large round tangerine, apparently nicked off his brother's Christmas table. Not the best timing of Withnail's, admittedly.

Peter exploded, making his friend step back.

\- We? We can? As if it is ever up to you to bust your arse off! We! Oh, fuck off.

Marwood tossed the tangerine into a fresh snow pile right next to the orphaned scarf, then turned away and took off his coat.  
He set his foot onto the ground floor window, when the voice stopped him.

-Wait!

He looked down at Withnail with a nearly murderous expression.

\- I can hardly believe it. It was there, all along.

Withnail held the key, staring at it in complete astonishment.

***

He twirled 180 degrees when he heard the familiar sound of the cowboy boots heels.

\- I had us a bottle open. - said Vyvian, in his own way of awkward apology.

\- I am sorry for yelling. I should have pulled myself together.

Marwood with the tangerine in his left hand and the not-so-new scarf in the right one.

\- Do not dump your clothes like that. Save it for later.

\- I'm not wearing it.

\- I didn't say you have to.

Withnail's radio was on, playing some dingy old Christmas carols, which they would normally turn off, or change the channel, but somehow it didn't bother them that much that night.

Vyv's head was in lover's lap and the smell of tangerine peel seemed sweeter than all the scents of Covent Garden.


End file.
